


Alone

by vaultboii



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Mating Cycles/In Heat, prompt: 500 words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-15 15:21:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18672337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaultboii/pseuds/vaultboii
Summary: Isolation, although sweet in its silence, brought another beast as time passed him by.





	Alone

Isolation, although sweet in its silence, brought another beast as time passed him by.

Sheo could feel it. The call -  _ biting, tempting, needing _ \- started as a trickle in the chest, a tightness that slowly creeped up into the head until he found himself dazed by nothing. Attention shifted and unfocused, and the painting before him lost appeal; and that was when he steadied his will and prepared for the worst. 

All three of them had coping habits. Sheo could not say what his brothers’ habits were now, but before when it grew terrible and all three were together, they would sit in a circle and sharpen, polish their nails. A steady beat, to count the time. One, two, three. Don't look anywhere but the nails. Quiet your urges. One, two, three. 

It was hard then. Alone now, even harder. 

He had tried painting as a coping habit during one cycle, but he couldn't hold root in the strokes of the brush. They came too fluid, no resistance. Although he heard painting techniques were supposed to calm restlessness, his fingers would begin to twitch and he'd find himself irritated by the slightest stroke. Irritation lead to impulsiveness. Sly taught this, taught them anger should be used if it was used correctly and with pre-planning, a made-up mind.  _ Execute your anger slyly _ , his master used to say with his dry humour, the monotone to protect them from attachment.  _ Irritation is failure.  _

So he went back to old coping habits. As the fire rippled again in his chest, he rose and went to the shed outside his house, to where he kept old memories forgotten. There, he would put aside veils and tarps over weapons, unused armour until he found his nail. Until the memories truly began to resurface. 

And as always around the moments when time slowed, and life flickered to the heat in his heart, the poison beckoning him to rise and take and  _ we need, need, need  _ \- he would quietly drag his nail from the shed, and find his toolkit. Then, sitting inside the darkest room of his house, barricaded by canvas and memories, he would begin to sharpen the nail. One, two, three. Fingers would slide along the blade, tracing grooves and decorative engravings. 

He envisioned his brothers in his haze when the heat grew stronger, distracted himself with their memories. Oro, tired and stubborn, drawing his stone against the nail as if trying to grind away the fire, trying to force something to break blade. Mato, easily swayed but competitive, laxing in his strokes until he realized he had fallen behind, then struggling to catch up. The stroke of their sharpening alongside his. 

One, two, three. 

He stayed his slouch. Breathed in. Counted, counted. 

The heat would not win. It never won. It would fade like everything else and isolation would grant that sweet muse of painting, the silence that allowed him to think. Not this cloudy haze of desire. 

One, two, three. 

He would be alone again. 

(Tragically.)   
  


**Author's Note:**

> if you liked this, feel free to contact me for a commission on apexianthoughts on tumblr! might do a $3 for 500 words sale.


End file.
